


High Summer

by thesaddestboner



Series: Emo Jeter Fic [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, New York Yankees, Non-Famous Family Members As Characters, Unhealthy Relationships, this is old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-27
Updated: 2004-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Derek somehow feels colder than before.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Summer

**Author's Note:**

> God, this is soooo old and kind of embarrassing. I actually started writing this during an Intro to Film class, while we were watching a doc on Altamont hahaha.
> 
> I didn't find out until well after the fact that Jeter and A-Rod were actually friends _way_ back in the day. So, obviously, the bit about them meeting at the All-Star Game is clearly made up.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

_High summer's on the rebound_  
High summer's got him low down

— Van Morrison, "High Summer"

It’s little over a week later - the motherfucking Red Sox are well on their way to blotting 1918 from the public’s consciousness - and it still stings like a blast of pepper spray to the eyes; losing four straight to your arch-rival to blow a sure bid to the World Series is going to sting for quite some time, don’t you think. 

Jorge goes home with his wife and children to visit family. On the flight to Puerto Rico, he calls up a former teammate and friend to taunt him about his _own_ playoff failings. They end up reminiscing about the ‘good old days’, and make plans to meet up during the off-season.

Mariano goes back home to appropriately mourn his lost family members. He does so without much fanfare, and Derek receives a phone call from him a few days later, asking him how is he doing, how is he spending his off-season, how does he feel about the Giants’ chances against Detroit this upcoming Sunday.

George plots his next big roster move - Carlos Beltran is now a free agent and would look very nice in pinstripes.

Alex takes his wife Cynthia - pregnant with their firstborn and nearly as big as a house - home to Miami. He takes Derek along with him, as well.

Cynthia wonders about those two sometimes.

Business as usual in the Bronx.

*

Alex owns a pretty white bungalow and acres of beachfront property overlooking the Atlantic. It’s the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen. He drags an old wood lawn chair onto the sand and marvels at how the waves lap at his toes. Everything is simpler here, Derek thinks. No baseball to cloud his mind. No scouting reports to digest, no opposing batters to size up, no dirt in which he can dig his cleats.

It is beautiful.

Derek supposes that maybe Alex’s place is even more beautiful than his four World Series rings, although one would have to pry those rings from his cold, dead hands.

Derek does not feel like a guest in Alex and Cynthia’s home. In fact, he feels like a part of the Rodriguez clan. Cynthia jokingly calls him ‘Uncle Derek' and promises that he will be second in line on the list of little Rodriguez’s many godfathers - Alex’s brother is number one.

Alex has been domesticated.

*

Alex is standing in front of Derek’s lawn chair, digging his toes into the sand. He looks like he’s just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad, ready for a Rodriguez family clambake in his salmon pink Polo and his white linen slacks.

Neither Derek nor Alex has said anything for quite some time, and Derek begins to wonder if they’d ever said anything at all.

Finally, Alex clears his throat, tossing up a neon yellow Frisbee and catching it in his hand. “So . . . ‘Wait ‘til next year,’ right? That’s what they always say?”

Derek opens one eye and shades his face from the sun with a folded up newspaper. “Guess so.”

Alex drops the Frisbee in the sand and it sticks up like a grave marker. He toes it with his bare foot until it falls over, and buries it beneath shimmering white sand. He shoves his hands into his pants pockets, heaves a sigh. “I really thought we’d win it all this year.”

“Well.” Derek crosses his legs at his ankles and places the newspaper over his face. “We all did, Alex.”

“I thought we were gonna sweep.” Alex sounds like he’s been scraped paper-thin, so Derek lifts the New York Daily News off of his face and sneaks a peek at his third baseman. Alex’s shoulders are slumped and his hands are shoved deeply into his pockets; he looks like the sallow, sagging homeless man that Derek passes every day on his way to the corner Starbucks by his New York apartment. Alex has rings under his eyes that weren’t there before the Boston series.

Derek half-wonders whether or not it’s really true what they say about Alex selling his soul to go to Texas.

“Didn’t we all, Alex?” Derek pauses and then adds, with a perfunctory smile, “Except Boston.”

Alex shrugs. “I came to New York to win the Series, and it’s not going to happen - it’s going to be fucking _Boston_.”

“The ghosts'll come through,” Derek says, placing his newspaper back over his face. It’s really not that bright or hot out. 

“The ghosts will come through in the end,” Alex echoes with a hint of question tacked on to the end, sitting beside Derek; he draws a baseball in the sand with his index finger and then, apparently displeased with his effort, crosses it out. He frowns and chews on his lip, draws a crude version of himself at third - or so Derek thinks. Alex is not very talented at drawing stick figures in the sand, but that's probably the only thing he isn't good at.

“Who’s that supposed to be?” Derek asks, even though he doesn’t really care. He just doesn’t like long silences, and especially doesn’t like long silences when Alex is on the other end. That always means Alex is thinking, and that is usually not a good thing.

“You.” Alex points to the stick figure, a sloppily drawn ‘2’ dangling over his head like the sword of Damocles.

“Oh.” Derek isn’t impressed. “That’s a pretty good likeness. Let me draw _you_.” Derek gets out of the lawn chair and wipes stick figure Jeter away with his palm. 

Alex sits back on his haunches and continues to chew on his lip. “I should be worried, shouldn’t I?”

Derek nods. When he’s done with his sand masterpiece, he sits back and waves his arm with a flourish. “Ta-da.” 

Alex frowns at what is laid out before him. Stick figure A-Rod slapping at stick figure Arroyo’s glove. “That’s not funny. I feel bad enough as it is, Derek.” He digs the heel of his foot into the scene. 

“I thought it was pretty clever myself,” says Derek. “Come on. We had opportunities before that to put Boston away. Like game four? Game five? Game six?”

Alex shrugs like he’s trying to slough off the mantle of blame for the game seven disappointment. “If I’d kept my hands to myself, we’d have been right back in that game.”

“Maybe you should stop thinking about it now. The series is over and hindsight is 20/20,” Derek says.

“I can’t. I’m not going to stop thinking about it until next year. Until we win it all.” Alex kicks his feet in the sand like a spoiled, impatient child. 

Derek scrapes a hand over the buried Frisbee and says nothing to this. 

Wait until next year, he thinks, wait until next year.

*

It rains a lot their second week in Miami, and Cynthia makes jokes about seeing pairs of animals boarding a great ark. Alex is not amused, and reminds her that it is still hurricane season.

Today the sea is ominous and slate gray, crashing against the beach in great, dark waves, the low roar of the tide filling all of Derek’s senses. 

The sea looks like how Derek feels - angry and gray. 

He wonders what it would be like to fall into the turbulent waters, and let the sea have him. He wonders if anyone would _really_ miss him.

Certainly, the fans would miss Derek Jeter the Stud Shortstop, no doubt about that. 

Steinbrenner would miss the face of the Yankees’ franchise, but he would be able to replace him. Torre would miss his team leader and captain, but he would still have Bernie and Jorge and Gary, and countless others to fill in his void. 

Alex would miss him, but Alex doesn’t count, not anymore.

Cynthia would probably miss him too, but Derek doesn’t even really know her.

His parents and his sister, those are the only ones who hold any weight with Derek. They would miss him greatly. 

However, he is still tempted to step into the tide and surrender his will, still wonders what would happen to him if he did just that.

He wonders if there are any sharks by Alex’s place. 

He wonders if he would be able to make it to Cuba. He has to laugh because finds that thought rather absurd - escaping to Cuba rather than _from_. But then again, Castro _is_ a big baseball fan.

”Derek. Earth to Derek. Wake up.” Alex is snapping his fingers in front of his face, and Derek blinks a few times, wondering how long he had zoned out, and whether or not what Alex had said was important.

Derek shakes the absurd thoughts out of his head. “Hm?”

“You zoned out on me, man.” Alex is leaning against the kitchen counter, glass of orange juice and the New York Times in hand. “I said, ‘How do you think the Giants’ll do against Detroit’?”

Derek shrugs. “Uh, fine, I guess. Sorry.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. Things like this have been happening more and more to Derek lately, since Alex joined the team. Little distractions - even on the field, although it would certainly be unfair to place _all_ the blame for Derek’s current mental state upon Alex’s shoulders.

Poor Alex is already shouldering enough blame for one off-season.

“Harrington’s got sacked a lot this year,” Alex muses, snapping the sports section of the Times at Derek’s chest. “Strahan should have a field day.”

Derek pretends he cares about how the New York Giants are doing, and nods along. “Isn’t Strahan the guy who got the sacks record?” He drums his fingers on the countertop, impatient for something - something he just can’t put his finger on.

“Yeah, that’s the guy.” Alex smiles, looking as if he feels important. “I used to be a big Dolphins fan ‘til I went to Texas. Then I kinda became a Cowboys fan ‘cause who in Texas isn’t a Cowboys fan?”

“Houston Texans fans?” Derek asks, hiking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, whatever. They don’t really count, they’re expansion.” Alex scrunches up his nose in distaste. “Tuna’s gonna make Dallas a winner again, anyways.”

“You change allegiances more often than you change your underpants.” Derek jostles Alex in the side with his elbow and winks. "You're a flake."

“Shut up. I do not! I still like Miami,” Rodriguez says, rolling his eyes at Derek. “I just like Dallas a little more. Maybe if Miami was a little better - ?” He shrugs. 

Derek shrugs and rubs at his sinuses with his thumb and forefinger. “Mo called again. He says hi. And Moose says you owe him forty bucks.”

“Forty bucks? What the fuck for?” Alex scowls.

“I don’t know. Something about a shady crossword puzzle gambling transaction or whatever,” Derek sighs. “I’m not your voicemail. Take your own messages.”

Alex laughs and rolls his eyes, slaps Derek in the arm. “Thanks, man. Cynthia and I are going to look at baby stuff. You wanna come with?”

“No thanks. Baby stuff isn’t my - thing,” Derek lies. He just doesn’t want to go anywhere with Alex if Cynthia's around.

“Well, okay then!” Alex beams, and gives Derek another friendly punch in the shoulder. “We’ll bring you back some Chinese then. See ya.”

Derek takes in a huge, gulping breath when Alex finally leaves - he hadn’t realized he’d forgotten to breathe.

*

How it began is like this:

It had all started at the All-Star game at Fenway in ’99; Derek remembers this much at least.

Alex was at the hotel receptionist’s desk, leaning over, flirting with the girl. “Has anyone told you that you look just like Julia Roberts?”

Derek rolled his eyes. He knew Alex mostly from reputation, and playing against Seattle, and was certainly not impressed with Rodriguez’s pick up skills. “That’s one of the oldest lines in the book, Rodriguez.”

“I’m not feeding you any lines - ” Alex squinted at the receptionist’s name tag “ - Linda. You really do look like Julia Roberts’ Latina twin.”

Linda laughed and rolled her eyes. “Sure you aren’t, Alex.” She pressed a room key into his palm, fingers lingering for a split second before pulling away. “Have a nice stay.”

Derek shouldered his way next to Alex and gave him a jab in the ribs. “You’re one smooth, suave son of a bitch,” he teases. “If I were a chick, I wouldn’t touch that pick up line with a ten foot pole.”

“You’re not a chick, so no worries.” Alex beamed, licking his lips, extending a hand to Derek. “Hey. I’m Alex Rodriguez, by the way. Call me A-Rod.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “A-Rod. I’m sure you get lots of dick jokes.”

Alex smirked. “Thanks for reminding me, man.” Rodriguez picked up his bag and hefted the strap over his shoulder. “Where you at?”

Derek held up his room key. “Room 212. You?”

“214,” Alex grinned. “We’re neighbors. Nice to meet ya. Y'know, I always meant to introduce myself before one of our games, but it slipped my mind.”

“Better late than never,” said Derek, following Alex to the cavernous atrium of elevators. He pushed the ‘up’ button and stood back, tapping his foot in a nervous beat. “So, you all excited for the game?”

“ ’Course I am,” Alex enthused, looking up at the elevator doors. “Open sesame.”

“That never works,” Derek smirked.

No sooner had he said that than did the elevator doors open, and Derek laughed, following Rodriguez into the elevator cab.

“I’m magic.” Alex hooked an arm with the metal handicap bar and leaned against the wall, his breath whistling out through his nostrils.

“You sure are.” Derek tapped his foot. 

Alex glanced up at him and smiled. But this smile was different from the one he offered at the receptionist’s desk - this smile was layered with something else. Something - different. “So . . .” Even Alex’s voice sounded different.

There was some hidden meaning behind that one little word, Derek had thought, and he intended to find it out.

And, as luck would have it, Alex was more than willing to help him look.

*

And so that is how everything began.

Derek had hoped that the Rodriguez-to-Boston rumors had quashed any thoughts of a reprise - “We’ll be enemies now!” - but somehow, fate intervened and redirected Alex to the Bronx.

Alex swears up, down and sideways that it was the ghost of the Babe, with a little bit of God thrown in for good measure. He likes to believe that it was his destiny to end up in New York, playing side-by-side with Derek.

Derek thinks divine intervention had nothing to do with it.

*

Cynthia is spread out on the couch when Derek emerges from his bedroom; it’s late afternoon, in the third or fourth week at the beach house; Derek is losing track. Alex doesn’t have a calendar.

“Good afternoon, Derek.” Cynthia’s voice floats up from the couch, weak and watery. She has a washcloth over her forehead and a Danielle Steel novel resting on her pregnant belly. “Alex is in the basement.”

“Thanks, Cynthia. Good afternoon to you, too.” Derek nods at her and stomps down to the basement where Alex is working out on one of his machines.

“Hey.” Alex sits up from his leg presses and rubs a fuzzy towel over his chest. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Good morn - er, afternoon.” Derek sighs and sits at one of Alex’s contraptions, leaning forward and resting his forehead against the cool, sleek metal; it feels as cool as a gun to the temple.

Alex moves closer and Derek can feel Alex’s heat pulsing against his skin. “So. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

Alex is so lame. He's always been so lame.

“I’m hot - it’s too muggy down here. It’s like a swamp. And I miss the Bronx. I miss the changing of the leaves.” Derek sighs. A hand rubs down the back of his neck.

Alex hooks his index finger in the collar of Derek’s t-shirt, already damp with sweat. “Mm?” 

“I miss New York.” Derek closes his eyes. “I miss having solid infield dirt under my feet.” He kicks his heel against the concrete. “Not this beach sand.”

Alex brushes his lips over Derek’s eyelids. “Well. What can we do about that?” 

“Not this.” Derek puts his hand out to push Alex away and his cool, dry palm connects with Alex’s sweat-slick belly. 

Alex curls his fingers around Derek’s wrist and moves his hand lower. “I’ll take your mind off the Bronx.”

Derek shakes his head. “Didn’t come down here for _this_ ,” but his hand is making him quite the hypocrite.

“Sure you didn't.” Alex smiles, closing his hand around Derek’s.

“Sure.” Derek locks his fingers with Alex’s. 

Derek moves his hand in long downstrokes, and Alex’s hand tightens over his. Their hands - fingers woven together - move in rhythm, timed with their breaths. Their breaths quicken and so do their movements.

“Haven’t done this in a while,” Alex whispers, his lips brushing over the tip of Derek’s ear. “I missed this.”

Derek can only nod.

“I know you did too. I was waiting for you.” Alex kisses Derek’s temple, curls one hand over the back of his neck. “I missed you.”

Finally, Alex bites into the fleshy part of his hand and stifles a yell.

Derek gets up and heads for his lawn chair.

*

Derek kicks off his sandals and leaves them beside the lawn chair. He begins to unbutton his shirt, and when he’s done with that task, he drops it over the back of the chair and slips out of his shorts and he's standing there in nothing but his boxers. 

He sticks a toe in the water, and it’s freezing cold, but he forces himself to take a step forward, and then another step and then another and another until he is up to his waist in the frigid water.

The Atlantic is gray and tumultuous, but it welcomes Derek with open arms.

Derek lets go and submits himself to God’s and the Atlantic's will. 

The waves thrust him back onto the shore, spitting him out onto the beach like a bad taste.

Maybe it’s not his time just yet.

The last thing he sees before he passes out is a seagull circling overhead like a vulture.

*

“I can’t believe you went swimming in this weather!” Cynthia brings Derek a mug of hot chocolate, and gives a gentle tug on the fleece wrapped about his shoulders. “You could have drowned!”

Derek, teeth chattering in Morse code, pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders and nods in agreement with Alex’s wife. “I kn-know, C-Cynthia. Just wanted to go swimming.”

“What were you _thinking_?” Alex hovers over Cynthia’s shoulder, hands on his hips. He gives an imperious sniff, and lets a smile crack his stern veneer. “I was worried about you! I don’t want you getting eaten up by sharks, man!”

“N-no sh-sharks,” Derek mumbles, “unfortunately.”

Cynthia pretends she didn't hear that and clucks at him like a hen. “Well, I’m going to make you some chicken soup to warm you up. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

Once she’s gone, Alex slides onto the couch next to him and rubs his foot over Derek’s foot.

“I really _was_ worried about you, you know,” he says, rubbing his toes over the bony part of Derek’s ankle.

Derek moves his foot away. “I knew what I was d-doing.”

“Sure, that’s why I had to pull you out of the water,” Alex quips.

“I was surrendering myself to a higher power.”

“God?” asks Alex.

“The Atlantic.” Derek shrugs, and brings the chipped mug to his lips.

“Well, that was still a dumbass thing to do, Derek,” Alex mutters, putting his hand in Derek’s lap, finding Derek's earlobe with his teeth.

Derek sears his mouth on the hot chocolate. “Mmhmm. I know. That’s why I did it.” He flicks his tongue out and makes a face. “Hot.”

Alex takes the cup away and puts it on a stack of magazines on the coffee table. “C’mere.” He puts an arm around Derek’s waist, pulling him closer, one hand still in Derek’s lap, diving down to kiss him. 

“Stop it.” Derek turns his head, and Alex ends up kissing his ear.

“ _Derek_.” Alex tugs on Derek’s blanket, his voice rising to a childish whine. 

Derek sighs, bone-deep and weary, relenting, allowing Alex to peel the fleece away. Alex’s lips are on his throat and Alex’s hand is moving in his lap, and Derek somehow feels colder than before.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
